Sunset Blood

Fragmented: Part 1

Through my lens, a smile, a singing light across the room. It's a warm embrace, a bead of dew on a blade of grass, the scratching of a bow on a cello. A second smile sang. I heard a third voice join the song, lower, richer. And then a fourth. And then a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, a choir of angels, like a tower of sound, like the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life. I took another photo, this time of the teachers crowded to the side of the room. Their eyes were lowered and their eyebrows were furrowed in contemplation. I couldn't tell if they were trying to solve a problem or just anticipating the show. I couldn't hear their discussion, but I knew they were talking about us: who had the most potential, who could reach a professional level, and who, like me, just didn't have it in them. I walked through the students to my friends, until I was right in front of them. Katya turned her head to the side. A gleam of happiness crossed her face when she saw me.

The scene here was a stage play that everyone has seen billions of times. It wasn't that surprising to see familiar objects here. But it was different seeing them and realizing they were familiar to me. I saw the ground. I saw the rust-coloured velvet curtain falling loosely on the stage. I saw the golden legs of the chairs, bent like those of a dancer. I saw the broad pattern of the rug, which looked like wood grain, but was blue. I imagined the seats filled with people, which would look like a painting rendered in three dimensions. I've seen the reindeer fur hue of the wardrobe and the sparkle of sequins on a suit. My circle of friends was sitting on the damaged floor, on the floor, in the middle of the room. Their legs were folded under them and their backs were bent forward. They had reunited in front of our year-end album and were basking in the warmth of their growing friendship.

Someone was sitting a little apart from the group: me. I rested my head on Katya's shoulder. I tried to be enthusiastic about the opening of the ballet, but I didn't maintain a very nice facade. I was exhausted from the hours of rehearsal. A sigh escaped my lips. I couldn't summon more enthusiasm for the evening's performance; it was way too much like every other night. Fatigue stifled my ardour. I'm glad they try to include me even though we all know that I don't understand Russian culture and the fascination with ballet as much as they do. I can hear the sound of my breathing. These are my heartbeats. It's the sound of the air passing through my lungs, over my vocal cords. The sound of my throat as I swallow. It's the sound of every breath I take. The sound of air crossed my nose. I know it's the sound of my own body, but it feels strange to me. I can hear it. Katya sings my favourite song. She sings it with our friends, it's a ritual to relax us. I hear echoes of conversation, but I can't take it all in. I look and I see people I know. They have their quirks, their own personalities. But they all have something in common, they all share something. The sound of laughter, the sound of bass, the vibrant pre-show energy, the calm voice of Katya singing, the sound of raindrops, the sound of the final note held too long, the sound of the last drumbeat, the sound of a breath held too long, the sound of people who have been together for a long time. It sounded more natural than a laugh should be.

I could hear all the sounds of my friends. I heard them breathing, smiling, swallowing, nudging, whispering, sighing, whispering again, a chorus of soft whispers, the volume of summer rain after a long hot dry season. I heard Katya's song. I heard her voice, her home, her story, her day. I heard my friends sing. I heard the sounds they made when they met. I heard the sounds they made when they became friends. I heard where they were right now, at this place. I heard through the fog and saw through my lens. Laughing and giggling, telling offbeat jokes, laughing at each other's comments, it seemed so natural. The discussion had a natural rhythm. They seemed to be having so much fun and I stood on the edge of the conversation, not knowing how to join in. I wish I had felt more comfortable living these moments, but instead, I was scared and pulled away.

Unlike me, Katya was in her place. Katya was the smartest, most outgoing girl I've ever known. and she had already made her place in the world. I hadn't yet understood why. I was the perfect exotic little girl who tried too hard or too little to fit in. I tried my best to be there, but as my thoughts spiralled out of control, I wondered if it was even possible to find my place. Katya was always so positive, and confident in her decisions. I was so jealous... I didn't know how she managed to be like that. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to do. I tried to be like that too, but each time I felt like I had found my place, a new problem arose that threatened my stability. So I hid behind my camera again, where I knew I would be safe. Photography was maybe the only thing I was good at. My Baba always said that I could glimpse the soul of people and the true nature of the universe. It's my voice. For the rest of my life, I drifted around half-loved abstractions. Photography left me with questions about the world and about myself. With my camera in hand, I discovered that the world was both an incredibly beautiful and cruel place. It wasn't just about capturing an image and recording a moment: it was about understanding that image and that moment, trying to touch something ineffable with the lens of my camera. A poem was never far from my mind when I looked at the world through my lens. My fingers moved through the air, quickly wielding my camera like one would touch a violin. The sound of the strings, those playing under the bow, the magic of this musician, erasing all the bad things, opening all the good doors. The results were felt and the magic that usually touched my soul slowly dissipated. There was a life in me, a life that was not mine. What I saw through the lens was a flash of a thousand suns, like an exploding star. It was a jewel of colour, as bright as a rainbow, but beautiful in a way no rainbow could ever be.